When the day for parting came Barbara found that it cost her many pangs to leave them all—Mademoiselle Viré first and foremost, and the others in less degree, for she had grown fond even of Mademoiselle Thérèse. The latter lady declared she and her household were inconsolable and "unhappy enough to wear mourning," which remark Barbara took with a grain of salt, as she did most things that lady said.  
But the two sisters and Marie all went to the station to say good-bye, and each of them kissed her on both cheeks, weeping the while. Barbara was not very fond of kisses from outsiders in any case, but "weeping kisses," as she called them, were certainly a trial! What finally dried Mademoiselle Thérèse's tears was to see the widower and his two sons entering the station, each carrying a bouquet of flowers.
 
"So pushing of them," she murmured in Barbara's ear, and turned coldly upon them; but the girl and her aunt were touched by the kindness, and the former felt horribly ashamed when she remembered that more than once in private she had laughed at the quaint little man and his ways.
 
Barbara heard her aunt muttering something about a "dreadful humbug" once or twice, but she was very gracious to every one, and smiled upon them all until the train left the station, when she sank back with an air of relief and exclaimed, "Thank goodness! That's over—though, of course, they meant it kindly."
 
"They are very kind," Barbara said, looking down at the three bouquets on the seat. "I really don't deserve that they should be so kind."
 
"Probably not," Miss Britton returned calmly. "We sometimes get more than our deserts, sometimes less, so perhaps things adjust themselves in the end. I was really rather astonished not to see the bath-boy at the station too—your acquaintance seems so varied."
 
"Yes, I have learned a great deal since I went there," Barbara said thoughtfully; "and just at the end I felt I didn't want to come away at all."
 
"I have no such feelings," her aunt remarked, though, perhaps, a little thoughtfully also. But when they arrived at Rouen, the remembrance of their pleasant time in Paris returned to them, and they both felt ready for the delights of seeing a new town.
 
Apart from the information given by the Mortons Barbara felt already familiar with the great churches and quaint streets, and for her Rouen never quite lost the halo of romance that Mademoiselle Viré had endowed it with.
 
It was to be connected with yet another story of the past, however, before they left it, one which, for romance, was fully equal to Mademoiselle Viré's, though its conclusion was so much happier.
 
It was the second day of their stay, and after a morning of wandering about the town, both Barbara and her aunt were resting, the former on the balcony in front of her room, the latter on the terrace in the garden. Although a book was in her lap, Barbara was not reading, but, with hands clasped behind her head, was idly watching the passers-by, when suddenly laziness vanished from her attitude, and her gaze became intent on the figure of some one who had just turned into the portico of the hotel. She rose from the low chair, her eyes shining with excitement.
 
"It certainly was he!" she said. "Now, Barbara—it is time for you to eliminate yourself—you must lie on the couch and try to look pale."
 
She pulled down the window blind, ran into her room, and had hardly settled herself upon the couch when, as she had expected, a maid came up with a message asking her to go down to the ter............